


Sanguinary

by KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baskerville Research Facility, Blood Drinking, But they weren't married, Dominant John, Frottage, John kills Mary, M/M, Vampire John, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4933186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John?” Sherlock’s voice. Louder than ever, making John wince in pain as his legs began to buckle. He felt himself swaying dangerously, perilously close to falling down the seventeen stairs to the bottom before Sherlock grabbed him under his arms and pulled him to the top. His eyes seemed to change from sea green to gold as he looked over at John’s blood dripping over his fingers and jumper. John’s face was deathly pale, his heartbeat slow and lazy as his eyelashes fluttered to meet Sherlock’s gaze.</p><p>“H-Help me</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanguinary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlockholmesconsultingvampire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire/gifts).



> I wrote this AAAAAGES ago for SherlockHolmesConsultingVampire (who also beta'd it. Her own gift!)

John stumbled through the doorway to Baker Street; his feet seemed to move without his brain’s knowledge as he held one hand to his neck whilst the other grabbed the wall, leaving smears of crimson red blood on the wallpaper. Subconsciously, John realised that he would have to deal with Mrs Hudson tomorrow.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice. Louder than ever, making John wince in pain as his legs began to buckle. He felt himself swaying dangerously, perilously close to falling down the seventeen stairs to the bottom before Sherlock grabbed him under his arms and pulled him to the top. His eyes seemed to change from sea green to gold as he looked over at John’s blood dripping over his fingers and jumper. John’s face was deathly pale, his heartbeat slow and lazy as his eyelashes fluttered to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“H-Help me.”

* * *

Sherlock managed to put John to bed, pulling the covers up to the doctor’s chin in an attempt to warm his friend who was shivering and trembling in his own skin. His teeth chattered with cold despite the pyjamas, dressing gown and bedding piled on his body; Sherlock had cleaned John quickly and efficiently, looking at the wound at his throat which caused his own breathing to hitch as he tried to stem the blood and patch up his friend with bandages and gauze.

When John was stable, Sherlock put him to bed and retired to the living room to let John sleep and allow his body to recover from the shock. The detective moved to the kitchen table and the microscope which was ever present, and loading the slide full of John’s blood, he looked through the eye holes and began his study.

* * *

John winced at the noise which surrounded him; a steady beat which thudded through his mind and set his nerves on edge. Groaning, John pulled the pillow over his head and took a deep breath in an attempt to focus his mind, but the sound was too loud, even with the padding of the pillow.

“Sherlock?” John asked, his throat parched and scratchy. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock walked to the doorway and lingered momentarily; his eyes scanned John’s body ( _what was visible despite the pillow which covered John_ _’s face_ ) and he cleared his throat, momentarily startling John into pulling the cushion from his head. “What?”

“Ouch, stop shouting!” John grumbled, his eyes closing in a wince as he pulled himself to a seated position, his hand resting over the wound dressing against his neck.

“I didn’t realise I was,” Sherlock replied in a whisper.

“What's the thudding noise?” John asked, his eyes focussed on Sherlock’s throat, before pulling back to his friend's eyes.

“Thudding noise?” Sherlock asked. “There isn’t any noise.”

“I can hear it,” John insisted, tapping the sound on his thigh with his thick finger, _dumdum, dumdum._

Sherlock’s eyes showed a hint of fear before he closed his emotions off once more. Moving to the foot of John’s bed, he lingered before speaking, “What happened? Can you remember?”

“Some crackhead bit me!” John laughed mirthlessly. “I can’t believe it!”

The thudding noise began to increase in speed and volume, causing John to tilt his head and listen to the new sound.

“Where were you?” Sherlock asked, already plotting the journey in his mind to tell Mycroft.

“Just leaving the station. I was going to pop to Tesco on the way home but as I passed an alleyway I felt arms grab my shoulder. I turned and tried to punch him but he was quick, quicker than he had any right to be,” John grumbled. “I ended up pushed against the wall and he bit me. I couldn’t believe it. I’m going to need so many injections and blood tests.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly before nodding. “Probably just an addict. Needing his fix.”

“He didn’t take any of my money. I had my wallet when I left and my phone. I must have fainted because he was gone when I woke up,” John frowned.

“Well, you’re home and safe now,” Sherlock soothed, turning his back on his friend and thumbing his mobile in his pocket. “I’ll tell Lestrade.”

“Yeah, cheers mate,” John smiled. “I tell you what though, I’m starving.”

“I’ll heat you something. Soup alright?” Sherlock asked, watching John nod before shuffling back into the security of his bed.

* * *

Sherlock reached for his phone and swiped across to Mycroft’s name; calling his brother he paced back and forth across the living room until his brother answered on the second ring.

“Brother mine? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“What the fuck have you done?” Sherlock spat angrily, internally enjoying the hitch of breath from Mycroft at the foul language.

“Pardon?” Mycroft asked, his voice suddenly on edge. “It seems you’ve totally forgotten who you’re speaking to.”

“John was bit,” Sherlock hissed. “You told me that he’d been found and returned to Baskerville.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment before adding, “He was.”

“Well, obviously he’s turned one or more people because now John is lying in bed complaining that he can hear a thrumming noise and he’s hungry,” Sherlock whispered sadly. “What have you done, Mycroft?”

“You tell nobody about this Sherlock, do you hear?” Mycroft warned. “Keep an eye on John, don’t let him leave the flat.”

“I’m not an idio…” Sherlock started, before hearing a thud and the sound of footsteps against the fire escape outside of John’s window. Dropping his phone, he turned and ran up the stairs two at a time until he reached John’s bedroom, where he discovered the bed empty and the window open.

* * *

John had never felt so hungry, his entire body seemed to scream with absolute desperation for sustenance he had never experienced before. Even in Afghanistan, after a raid when he had been working 24-hour shifts without a break, he had never felt hunger like this.

His eyesight seemed more focused and clear; his senses completely sharpened despite the darkness of the street. The streetlights made his eyes ache and forced him to avert his eyes. The noise was back too, louder and stronger than previously, and it seemed to be all-encompassing as he spun to find the source of the sound. Pushing against a pedestrian who grumbled his discontent, John stilled and watched as the man’s pulse point fluttered and twitched with blood. His stomach rumbled and his mouth filled with saliva at the view, much to John’s confusion.

Starting off in a run, John rushed down a darkened alley and let his head fall back onto the wall. His eyes focussed against the darkness, giving him a peculiar night vision and allowing him to see everything in clear detail. His nose lifted into the air as the scent of a female passed by his hiding spot, _clair-de-lune_ perfume wafting in the still air along with the heady scent of a warm body.

John didn’t think, he allowed his nature to overcome his rationality and reached for the woman, pulling her down the dark alleyway and growling deep and predatory as he felt an ache in his mouth. A pain he had never felt before rushed through his body, as he grabbed the woman’s hair and pulled her neck to one side before sinking his teeth into her skin. Two points broke the skin and pushed into the artery; John removed his teeth and created a seal around the wound, sucking as though he was giving the stranger a love-bite. John felt the first drops of delicious tangy and metallic blood on his tongue, causing him to growl low and desperate as the woman fought to get away. John tightened his grip and pulled her head further to one side as he sucked harder, feeling the blood squirting into his mouth, again and again, quenching his unnatural thirst.

The woman had gone still in his arms; her screams had died down to soft murmurs of terror as the life was slowly sucked from her body via the small holes in her throat. John didn’t care, his whole body thrummed with an energy he had never felt before. His senses tingled and fireworks exploded behind his eyes as he finished and let her fall to the floor carelessly. He looked down at himself, he was still dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, but he felt different, stronger, faster, harder.

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice. A tingle up John’s spine as his arousal and need which had been hidden for months is finally allowed to come to the surface.

“John, I need you to think very carefully. Did you bleed on this woman?”

John frowned, _why would he have bled on her?_ They didn’t fight…

“No,” John shook his head and stood up fully, looking up at Sherlock as though he was seeing him for the first time. Sherlock was beautiful, ethereally pale in the darkness whilst his eyes sparkled.

“Okay. Good, that’s good,” Sherlock nodded and flipped out his phone. Calling an ambulance he rifled through the woman’s pocket and pulled out her purse.

“Yes, ambulance please,” Sherlock said, giving the location before carefully opening the woman’s purse and pulling out her ID. “A Mary Morstan has been attacked on the street. Yes she’s breathing, no she’s not conscious.” Sherlock hung up the phone and turned to John.

“We need to leave. Now,” Sherlock insisted, grabbing John’s hand and pulling him.

The detective had always been strong; his hours of running around London allowed his stamina to be good which furthered his martial arts training. He and John had practised moves in their flat countless times but he wasn’t prepared for the way John moved since he had turned. The smaller man was nimble and quick, twisting himself around to ensure he was free of Sherlock’s grasp, before slamming his friend to the wall and pushing up against him, John’s chest to Sherlock’s back.

“You’re not dragging me like I’m a fucking animal,” John snarled, pointed teeth bared in the darkness as he smelt the waves of fear leaving Sherlock’s body.

“John, calm down. I just thought we should leave before the ambulance and police arrive. That’s all,” Sherlock attempted to soothe, his heart racing in John’s ears.

“Why?” John frowned. “Because I hurt her?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock whispered. “It’s not your fault. You’re ill…”

“Not ill. Never felt better,” John insisted, grinding his hardness against Sherlock’s plush arse and groaning low.

“John,” Sherlock choked. His own cock suddenly making its presence known.

“I’m going to take you home,” John whispered, playfully nipping Sherlock’s ear with his fangs, “and I’m going to taste you. I’m going to make you bleed on my tongue.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, grinding back against John desperately. “Anything, but first, we need to move.”

John reached for Sherlock’s hand and dragged him, the supernatural strength helping as he dragged the detective along through the darkness back towards their home. Sherlock stayed silent, his mind whirling in a frenzy as to how far this night was going to go. Would he finally get his heart's desires or would John drink his blood and end his life?

The door slammed behind them, startling Sherlock back into full consciousness as they climbed the seventeen stairs. John entered the house first, picking up the scent of Mrs Hudson below but ignoring it completely as he turned on Sherlock and pressed him against the wall. Sherlock exhaled shakily, his heart pounding in his chest as John turned his silver-blue eyes upon his prey.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you,” John growled, low and deep in his throat. An almost unhuman sound filling the space between the two men. “To taste you, to possess you entirely. You. Are. Mine.” John growled each word and grabbed Sherlock’s hair, pulling it back and baring Sherlock’s pale white neck to the light. Watching as the thudding pulse jumped against his skin.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, more desperate than he’d ever been in his entire life.

John pressed his body against Sherlock’s and quickly unzipped the tailored trousers to allow himself to grasp for Sherlock’s prick. He freed his own cock soon after and pushed them together, hot flesh against hot flesh as he held Sherlock up with his other arm. His thick fingers created the perfect band of pressure around their shafts as Sherlock bucked his hips, licking his lips and whining low in his throat as John moved his lips closer to his friend's neck.

“I can smell you,” John whispered, his voice gravelly and deep. “I can smell the arousal coming from you in waves. You smell divine.”

Sherlock whimpered, a part of him was terrified. John had become a monster, a true to life horror character but deep down, Sherlock was excited. He wanted to belong to John, to be his partner for as long as their life endured.

John ran his nose across Sherlock’s inner throat and along his jawline, giving soft licks and breathy kisses which had the detective weak at the knees, and leaking precum into a puddle on John’s hand and the floor between their legs. He bit his lower lip, tasting the tangy scent of blood a moment too late.

“Fuck,” John roared, pushing himself closer and throwing his lips against Sherlock’s, his tongue lapping at Sherlock’s lower lip to reach the crimson liquid which dripped into his mouth. “Fuck Sherlock, you taste… you fucking taste…. Oh, fuck.”

John came thickly and with a silent scream as he tasted Sherlock’s blood lingering in his mouth. His hips juddered and shook as streams of cum covered Sherlock’s cock, his own hand and the bottom of Sherlock’s shirttails.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes blacker than night and his cheeks pink and flushed. “Mark me, bite me, turn me, please!”

John’s eyes widened in lust and desire as he heard Sherlock beg. The detective looked utterly wrecked and desperate as he thrust into John’s hand. The blond looked over at his friend and nodded, before grabbing Sherlock’s curls with his free hand, clamping them into the hair and pulling Sherlock roughly to one side to allow access to his pulse. Sherlock inhaled shakily, slammed his eyes closed for the pain and groaned when it eventually came. It was sharp, painful and overwhelming as he felt John’s fangs against his skin for the first time. He yelped and bit his broken lip once more when the first sensation of John puncturing his skin fizzed around his body and the bursting of his blood landed in John’s mouth. Sherlock couldn’t help himself, the sounds which escaped his lips echoing around the room as his cock twitched and exploded between them. Ribbon after ribbon of hot cum covered his stomach and John’s hand as the older man drank his fill. Sucking and groaning deeply and greedily as his hand moved to coax the remaining dribbles from Sherlock’s seemingly unending orgasm.

“John,” Sherlock whispered reverently. His entire mind was swimming and his vision was slowly becoming black before fading to white, his memory focussed on every good thing to ever happen; seeing John’s smile, the giggling from their first case, running across rooftops together. He could feel himself slipping away into nothingness, the sweet ecstasy of John’s touch taking everything away.

Sherlock awoke sometime later in his own bed; John sat at the edge looking flushed and agitated, his entire body buzzing with energy.

“John,” Sherlock smiled, meeting his best friend's gaze and reaching for his hand. “Are you alright?”

John nodded and reached for Sherlock’s lips, pressing a tender kiss on the bruised skin “I am, are you?”

“I feel… woozy,” Sherlock admitted, putting his hand to his neck and noticing there were no marks. He was a little disappointed.

“It seems my saliva heals things,” John shrugged awkwardly. “Should make being a doctor easier. Going to save the NHS millions.”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “Did you… turn me?”

“I don’t know,” John whispered. “I don’t know how, or what I am. I shouldn’t have… Christ, I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Your hand,” Sherlock insisted, turning John’s hand over and looking at the palm. “Cut it.”

“Why?” John asked confused.

“I need to feed,” Sherlock continued, “to turn.”

“We don’t know the specifics, Sherlock if it’s dangerous or terminal. We need to do more tests,” John insisted angrily, his fist clenching.

“Did tests,” Sherlock nodded. “Your blood, remember?”

“I don’t…” John trailed off before sighing. “Am I dead?”

“No,” Sherlock smiled. “Mutated. Perfectly. You’re the perfect weapon.”

“I don’t want to be a weapon,” John cried, emotion swirling around his body causing him to feel nauseous.

“Let me join you,” Sherlock begged. “Please, John. Imagine it. Us, forever.”

John looked away from Sherlock but could feel his adrenaline pumping as he reached for Sherlock’s keys and opened the penknife. Pulling it across his wrist he pushed it to Sherlock and watched as the detective began to feed, groaning and writhing as the hot, metallic blood rushed down his throat.

“We’re going to get in trouble. I can tell,” John sighed as Sherlock drank him down.


End file.
